


Two Conversations John Didn't Want to Have, and One He Did

by lie_to_me



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, John is confused, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Sarah is very patient, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lie_to_me/pseuds/lie_to_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John has rather a lot of surprising conversations about relationships. And also a lot of shagging.</p><p>Thanks for beta help from destination_toast, K.C. and T.M. This would not be here without you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Sherlock Talks and John Listens

John comes back late, feeling giddy, and grins at Sherlock in greeting, but he remains motionless in his chair, fingers steepled. John lets him be. He wanders into the kitchen, opening the fridge and ignoring most of its contents. He ponders a late-night cup of tea, or perhaps an ale.

“I can smell her, you know.”

“Hmm?” John straightens up, looking at Sherlock over the fridge door. Sherlock is peering over his still-steepled fingers.

“When you come back. I can smell her. She doesn’t wear perfume, sensible decision as a doctor, but I can smell her detergent and her shampoo.”

“Bloody brilliant,” John mutters with a sigh. Trust Sherlock to ruin a good mood.

“And her _sweat_. Have a lovely night, did you?”

John grabs the milk from the fridge. “Well, I had been, yes. So could you just - just _not_?” Turning back to the fridge, he grabs the milk. Quick glass of milk, then retreat upstairs. Yes. Good. He swings the door shut decisively, turning around with his glass of milk to find Sherlock. Sherlock, who has gotten up, and is towering over him in rather close proximity.

“Er. Hi.” John raises an eyebrow, but Sherlock just leans over and inhales deeply. John pulls a face, but he ignores it, narrowing his eyes and looking past him.

“You’d each had two glasses of wine at dinner, and she invited you back to hers,” he intones. “You sat on her....hmm, leather...sofa, and then she kissed you. Rather thoroughly. She was wearing lipstick, which you mostly cleaned up afterwards, but you did miss a spot.” His eyes are raking over John’s mouth, and John is suddenly very aware of how raw his lips feel after scrubbing Sarah’s lipstick off of them, how swollen they still feel, how brilliant it had been when she’d pushed him back against the couch and snogged him.

“Sherlock -”

“You didn’t stay there long, though. She had other plans. She grabbed your shirt collar and pulled you up to the bedroom, although I daresay you didn’t need much convincing.”

“Sherlock, really, there’s this thing called privacy, have you ever -”

“She unbuttoned your shirt, but she didn’t take it off you. Didn’t even tug it out of your trousers. I wonder. Does she just like you to look disheveled, or did she want access to something? If I looked now, would there be marks on your chest?”

John gapes, Sherlock’s fingers already slipping the top two buttons and tugging his shirt collar down. He smirks, and John feels himself flush, hot on his chest and neck. “Not the chest, the shoulders. Of course. She must have slid it aside.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “Those are rather vicious.” He looks at John sharply. “Interesting.” John swallows hard, his face flushing now. This is ridiculous. He should go upstairs, _now_ before -

“She moved on top of you then. Straddling you. Fascinating. You know, all the evidence indicates that you are rather...submissive.” He practically purrs the last word, and John’s mouth falls open. Sherlock just leans in closer. “Was it lovely, when she climbed on top of you and held your shoulders down? Is it _nice_ to have somebody else take charge?” John can’t suppress a shiver at his voice, and at the memory of the warm weight of Sarah above him, of allowing himself to be held, to be controlled, as she rocked herself lightly against his jeans-clad cock.

“Tell me, John. When you performed oral sex on her, did she lie down, or did she simply sit on your face?”

He almost whimpers, half-erect between his bloody gorgeous arsehole flatmate and the memory of one of the hottest nights he’s had in recent memory. Remembers the heat and wet of her against his lips, the taste of her on his tongue. The pressure as she’d ground into his mouth, her moans, and his own echoing into her cunt.

Suddenly Sherlock is palming John’s cock through his jeans, and John’s eyes snap up to meet Sherlock’s. Sherlock, who is leaning in to breathe into his ear: “What I find most fascinating is that she didn’t return the favor. _Very_ intriguing _.”_

When she was done, she’d given him a stern look, and told him that he could have an orgasm next time, if he was very good. It had been like the words had lodged somewhere hot and tight in his belly, making him impossibly harder. And now, Sherlock’s hand firm against his groin, he’s very hard again. He freezes, swallowing hard. Resists the temptation to press forward into Sherlock’s hand. Oh, god.

“I’d ask whether I should do something about this, but it seems you like to be told. Trousers down, John.”

And John’s fingers, unbidden, fly to unbutton his jeans, letting them slide down around his ankles. Sherlock lifts his head and smirks lazily. “Very good,” he drawls.

John stares at him, dazed. For a moment, they stay frozen, looking at one another. Finally, John finds his voice.

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers.

Whip-fast, Sherlock shoves John’s pants down around his hips and closes his hand around his cock, squeezes. John groans. He’s still aching from earlier in the night, was nursing his arousal all the way home, and Sherlock’s hand feels like heaven and fire. Oh, _shit_.

“Wait, Christ, Sherlock, I...we can’t...”

“I certainly can, and you _asked_.”

Sherlock’s hand is pulling along the length of his shaft, thumb teasing the head, and John is dizzy with it. What the actual fuck is going on here? Is Sherlock getting off on the deduction? Is he trying to screw up John’s relationship? Is he just fucking with him?

Did John really _ask_ for it?

“Less thinking, John,” Sherlock growls, and leans forward to suck a bruise on John’s neck, high up, where it will be visible tomorrow. Oh, _Christ_. John moans, bucks his hips, and throws his head back, muffling a cry as he comes moments later. He leans, panting and incredulous and almost dizzy, against the fridge door, as Sherlock turns around briskly and walks away.

John’s brain is just starting to kick, sputtering, back into gear - jeans around his ankles and come on his shirt in the kitchen, _Jesus_ \- when Sherlock looks over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, you can still see her if you like.” He smirks unpleasantly. “I’m not threatened.”


	2. In Which John Apologizes Profusely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sarah figure some things out in the wake of John's encounter with Sherlock.

John texts Sarah after a restless, guilty night, and arranges to meet her in the evening. He tries to keep his mind off the upcoming conversation, and naturally fails spectacularly. He has the day off work and Sherlock is mysteriously absent from the flat, so he’s simply left to rattle about trying to distract himself with crap telly. It seems like every program is about cheating boyfriends or spouses, and he has to restrain himself from throwing things.

He’s not sure he can face her, and several times on the way to her flat he almost turns around. But he was an actual soldier, and he’s pretty confident that he’s still contractually obligated not to be that much of a coward.

Instead, he buys flowers on his way from the tube to her flat and resists the urge to squirm while he waits for her to open the door.

“You,” she says, “are so sweet! Thank you. Let me put these in a vase.” He hands over the flowers mechanically.

Shit. He had been hoping she knew about Apology Flowers.

“I’m so pleased you came over tonight,” she calls from the kitchen. “The shift today was murder, I was there for twelve hours. How many runny noses and sprained ankles can one city generate?” She emerges from the kitchen, sets the vase and flowers on the coffee table, and gives him a sly smile. “So, did you have anything particular in mind?”

“Actually, I. Ah. I think we ought to talk.” Oh, god. He’s the worst boyfriend ever. This is going to be a disaster.

“Oh? What about?”

“I have...a confession,” he says, and of course there’s no delicate way to say this. “I had...er. Sex? With Sherlock. Last night.”

“You...I see.” She stares off at some unknown point behind his shoulder, lips pursed. It really hits him for the first time that he’s not only gone and fucked things up, he’s actually hurt her. Of course he has. _Dammit_ , John.

“Not actual, ah, _penetrative_ sex,” as though that matters, as though that’ll make the slightest bit of difference when she’s turning away from him, crossing her arms. “But. We. I - just - I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I honestly didn’t. I -” Sarah holds up a hand, and John’s heart sinks.

“Will you just...sit down?” John swallows hard and nods. She presses a hand to her lips, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Okay. Just...tell me what happened.”

John nods again, getting his breathing back under control before he starts back in. Christ, how to explain any of this? At least she hasn’t kicked him out. Yet. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he tries to marshal his thoughts.

“Last night, when I got home, Sherlock just started in. You know how he is. He started deducing the things we were doing last night - the actual _sex_ things -”

“What, really?” she shakes her head. “Trust Sherlock.”

John huffs out a laugh. “Yep. You can, at that.” They share a rueful smile, and he feels the tension in his chest ease. “He, ah, kept saying these ridiculously private things, and he was all of a sudden just...right there. Really close. And, er, sort of _looming_. And.” He breaks off, blows out a breath. “And he told me to take off my trousers like, like it was absurd that I wouldn’t listen, and I just _did_ , and he started touching me, and I couldn’t _think_.” He sighs, burying his head in his hands, a sick mix of guilt and confusion and remembered arousal in his gut. “So. Yep. That’s what happened. And I am so, so sorry.”

He looks up cautiously. Sarah looks caught between anger and amusement and John isn’t honestly sure which he likes less.

“Well, you bollixed up...pretty comprehensively, eh?”

John dips his head again. “I. Yes. And again, so, incredibly, sorry.”

Sarah give him a wry smile. “I didn’t realize you were interested in him. In blokes, for that matter.”

Blowing out a breath, he sinks back into the couch. “I...well. I mostly date women, but not really...on purpose. It’s more the person than the body, for me.” He shakes his head. “But he’s...I didn’t have any idea _he_ was interested until last night.”

“But you’ve thought about it before?”

John raises an eyebrow. “You’ve seen him, yeah?”

Sarah smirks, then looks thoughtful.

“All right. This is important. Do you still want to have a relationship with me?”

“You know I do, and I’m so, so sorry-” she holds up a hand to stop him.

“And with Sherlock?”

“I...what?”

“Let’s say...if I wasn’t in the picture. Would you want a relationship with him?” He furrows his brow, and she actually laughs. “Not a trick question, John. I won’t hold it against you.”

John’s not sure how to respond to that. He can’t even picture Sherlock in something that falls under the category of romantic relationship. He wasn’t sure, until last night, that he was interested in sex. And yet. Aside from being a manipulative bastard, he certainly seemed. Well. Interested.

“Um. Yes. Maybe?” John feels his cheeks heat. “But I -”

“I...think that’s workable.” All John can do is blink as Sarah nods slowly. “It’s not that I’m not angry with you. I am. But.” She shrugs. “I think I understand. And I don’t think I could come between you and Sherlock if I wanted to.” John starts to protest, but she holds up a hand. “If you can manage the balance, I’m willing to share you with Sherlock.” She shrugs. “If that’s what you want. And if Sherlock can keep from being a bloody prat about it.”

John is actually speechless for a moment. “I - are you - we can’t -” He grinds to a halt again. He has no experience to prepare him for how this conversation is going.

“It’s up to you. Or we could go on as we have been, but apparently, you’ll have to fend off Sherlock now.”

He runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. When, exactly, had his life become so complicated? But of course, he knows the answer to that, doesn’t he. Once he gets past the initial shock, he has to admit that her proposal is...sensible. Well. Other than all the parts that involve Sherlock.

Oh, today is going to be full of lovely conversations.

“I. Actually. That sounds...fine. Er. But are you sure you’re...?”

“Please trust me not to propose things that I’m not okay with, John.”

“Sorry. I. Okay? Assuming Sherlock is...cooperative?” Which is a _laugh riot_ , but Sarah is nodding.

“Right, then. We should have a chat with Sherlock at some point, make sure we all understand one another. And in the meantime, no more _spontaneous sex_ with new people, yeah?”

“I _am_ sorry, really.” He pauses. “Should I still be groveling? I could grovel some more if you -” She slides a hand onto his neck, gentling him, and he relaxes into her grip.

“It’s okay. Just...do _try_ to think with something other than your dick, yeah?” John can feel himself blush. The idea of his dick being even peripherally involved with Sherlock is still, frankly, unnerving.

“Yup. Yeah. Excellent point.” He smiles ruefully at her, and she leans in to kiss him, gentle and sweet.

“Feel better?”

“Honestly? I feel _confused as fuck_. But that’s, yeah. An improvement.” She quirks a smile and pulls him forward for another kiss, this one more aggressive, and confused or not, he moans softly into her mouth.

“Glad we’ve got that sorted, then.” Then she smiles wickedly, the smile that shows all her teeth and is hotter than it has any right to be. She leans forward to murmur in his ear. “Now, then. You can make it up to me. On your knees, John.”

Jesus. This is _really_ not how he expected this conversation to go, but he feels a thrill run from his chest directly to his groin as he slides from the couch to his knees, facing Sarah. She puts a hand under his chin, tilting his head up and grasping his throat.

“Hmm,” she purrs. “Lovely. Your eyes are dilated already, did you know? You are just so responsive,” she murmurs, stroking her hand upward on his throat, over and over. He knows she can feel it when he swallows hard. With her looking down at him, he feels instinctively that she’s in command. It’s a fucking _relief_ , and it twists hot and tight in his belly. Looking up at her, he feels like he’s unconsciously pleading, and maybe he is. _Use me_ , his eyes beg. _Make me yours_. She smiles, lazy and smug, like she’s considering his request.

“I can understand why he did it,” she says, low and deliberate. “I didn’t let you come last night, did I? He must have seen that. Must have seen how _needy_ you were.” He moans as she drags her nails against the skin of his neck and through his hair.

She leans forward, face inches from his. Her eyes are half lidded and laser-focused on him, and he shivers with the thrill of it.

“It must have been so tempting,” she breathes, “to simply _take_ what he wanted.” She fists a hand in his hair, yanking his head to the side so that she can whisper in his ear. “I know the feeling.”

He hears himself groan brokenly, feels her smile against his cheek.

“I’m willing to share you, but right now, you are _mine_.” She bites his earlobe savagely and he cries out, but the pain is a release, and it feels like penance, like forgiveness. She sucks on his tenderized earlobe, breathing directly into his ear, and he moans, already feeling floaty and unraveled.

He’s torn between staying perfectly still and pulling her closer, touching her skin. He compromises by closing a hand convulsively on her knee.

“I do want to make you come today,” she murmurs into his ear, and he whimpers with a wash of arousal. “So I’ll meet you in the bedroom. I want you face up and naked on the bed by the time I get there.”

“ _Christ_ ,” John manages, blinking up at her for a moment, before clearing his head a bit, rising up on the balls of his feet and walking to the bedroom. He feels unbalanced, half-hypnotized, and it’s lovely. Obediently stripping off his clothes, he lies on the bed, wondering if she’s planning to keep him waiting.

She isn’t. She walks in lazily, sipping a glass of water, and smirks at him.

“Good _boy_ ,” she says, and he bites his lip, almost squirming with the praise. Putting the glass on the bedside, she sits on the edge of the bed, leaning over to kiss him. Her tongue is warm and wet and aggressive in his mouth, and he feels himself melt around it, hips lifting slightly into the air without his permission.

“Please,” he breathes, and she hums approval.

“Please what?” she teases.

“Anything. God. _Please_.” She makes a low, pleased sound.

She worries his lower lip between her teeth and strokes her hand upward from his belly over his chest, resting finally on his neck, and he lifts his head unconsciously, baring his throat to her.

“God, you’re pretty,” she growls, and swings a leg over him to straddle his waist, kissing him brutally, hands pulling at his hair and nails digging into his shoulders. She’s grinding her hips lazily against his stomach, and he can feel the wet heat of her. He thrusts helplessly, cock barely grazing her ass, and moans into her mouth. She said she wanted to see him come; it won’t take much to make that happen.

She raises her chest off his, lifting her hips from his waist and wriggling lower. Suddenly he can feel her cunt, slick and hot against his cock, and realizes she must have taken off her knickers while he was stripping in the bedroom. _Fuck_. Her skirt falls demurely around their hips as she thrusts herself onto him. He’s breathing in soft, stuttering bursts now, and she’s tight and wet around him. She closes her eyes, moving her hips in small circles as she bears down on him, and her moans make him harder, more desperate. He bucks up into her, and she makes a noise that’s half-moan, half-laugh.

“Oh, you’re lovely,” she breathes. “God. I want...oh...your fingers on my clit, and don’t even _consider_ coming until I say.”

“ _Fucking_ hell,” he says feelingly, and slips his fist between them, angling the knuckle of his pointer finger to rub over her clit as she grinds herself back and forth against him.

She’s soft and wet and demanding against him. The angle of his hand gets tiring quickly, keeps him focused. Without that to focus on, he’s sure that the noises she’s making and her cunt moving around his cock would already have been too much for him.

She leans back over to kiss him, and one-handed, he massages her breasts through her white button-down. He feels deliciously vulnerable in his nakedness while she’s still fully clothed. He grinds his hips up into her, matching her pressure as she presses her pubic bone down onto his finger. She’s kissing him sloppily, panting and groaning, and smiling, smug and decadent, whenever she meets his eyes. It’s almost too much, seeing her undone like this, knowing that she’s getting off on his submission, his obedience. He moans and pushes his fingers harder against her clit.

He’s worrying about how much longer he’s going to last when he feels her start to clench around him, and he rubs his knuckle harder, faster against the nub of her and watches, breathless, as she arches her back and comes. It’s bloody _gorgeous_.

“Okay,” she laughs breathily, “Bloody hell. Okay. Now you can come.” And, dizzy and whining, _desperate_ , he does, thrusting erratically up into her, with her teeth locked around the skin on his good shoulder. He collapses back onto the bed, pleasure subsiding in slow waves.

She presses a kiss to his forehead and rolls onto her side next to him, flinging an arm across his chest. “Did you enjoy your orgasm, pet?” She’s smirking lazily, and he smiles up at the ceiling.

“Yes,” he murmurs, resting his cheek on her forehead. “Thank you.” And thanking her for an orgasm feels oddly appropriate. _Thank you, sir, may I have another?_ he thinks wildly, and has to stifle a giggle.

She hums contentedly next to him.

“Me and Sherlock,” she murmurs. “Oh, you are in such trouble.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me, and sorry about the delay with this chapter! It's my first time posting anything of this length publicly, and I'm really wanting to get it right. Hope you like it!


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